Best Sidelong Poems
Act One: the stage and scenery are set
I was told the play, I'd not soon forget
But if truth were to be told
More like the game, whack-a-mole
I needed a hammer, not a lorgnette
Thespians were vying for the limelight
Popping up everywhere, ready to fight
Sarcastic words ill spoken
The golden rule was broken
A princess rudely slandered by a knight
Act Two: the actors wrote their own stage play
A long soliloquy to have their say
The audience booed and hissed
"Put that one on the blacklist!
Kick that charlatan out," they did convey.
Someone had to quickly close the curtain
'fore the crowd decided they'd be hurtin'
the actor they were jeering
with sidelong looks of leering
meaning, "Fit for a role by Tim Burton!"
Act Three: Then Queenie tried to take control
Each part played, she admitted that she stole
Just another know it all
Boring with each scribbled scrawl
Showing up everywhere like whack-a-mole
Bad actors can't write plays worth a ripe fig
But criticize others to make a dig.
Negative comments given
Are they jealousy driven?
Wantin' to make the rules like a bigwig
The play, though not very well attended
is being recast with those commended
who are never rude and crude
and have a kind attitude
Instead of those whose words have offended
The next play is about a new dog breed
I heard it's called a boghound with a need
to chew on a bone until
its nibbling has caused ill will
and seats are all empty; audience freed.
If I could be much younger than I am,
with my time in life as yet too brief
to give me evidence and cause
to change my views.
If views I held.
I would know such simple ways to right the world
and all the people and injustice in it.
I’d have such certainty of right and wrong,
old failures disregarded,
that all my eyes would see of times to come
would be my hopes,
and of my past,
successes.
I could show my strength of will
with lines drawn deep in evening sands
and cancelled by each morning’s tide.
And the loss of every latest, greatest love
would be forgot
whenever dark eyed interest
was sidelong glanced my way.
If I could be much younger than I am.
The chill of morning, children yawning,
I am tired, the blush of dawning has me
feeling ill at ease, my spirit sags,
I barely reach the second floor.
'When will you return? Is Paris so much more
than you have here?' is my unanswered question.
I drag my heels to breakfast,
listless as a lazy dog, and nibble toast,
my countenance as pallid as a ghost.
A letter would be welcomed.
I shall miss you; there, I've said it.
I am your friend, are you not mine?
Tenuous and strained, two casual
acquaintances who share so little time,
we brush elbows, like strangers passing
on a platform, sharing sidelong glances,
afraid to say hello. I watch you as you go.
Death is a best friend
she visits often to dissolve old cells
tweak dioxyribonucleic acids
carrying silver sword and bamboo pipe
to draw breath, pointing to moon
caped in indigo velvet with hood
her whispers are silent breath on
white pillow
I invite her to sit on my bed
she admires an octagonal quilt red
removing her cape, accepting offering
of camomile tea, her eyes smiling hollows hyena, warrior, eagle, dung beetle
all at once, elegantly slow she settles
closer, fingering my ears, cold breezes
ripple down my legs
With sidelong glance she asks :
“So what is your claim to fame ?”
I reply : “I know not a name. Fame is
a shadowy flame, an orange-purple
one flickering to become lame.
All the same, I claim to be the highest
version of what Source intended
nothing more, nothing less.
This is free fame, oxygenated.
That is my game, if insane, let it not
be a shame, or a blame.”
Smiling, she asks next : “How have
you helped fellow humans ?”
I reply : “With Pluto Sun squared as
a dominant in my Chart, I undertook to
integrate escaping gloom into Light for
Self and others. As God granted Ketu
long periods of rulership over my form
I pulped Self in backwaters, where
angels fear to tread, to be a Presence
for fellow humans.”
Her hollow eyes with high cheekbones
move closer to my face. Sipping from floral teacup, fingers spindly, she asks :
“How erect will your spine be before
THE ALL ?”
I reply : “Not as erect as when I practiced kundalini and hatha yoga, though I detect
zero regrets, bereft of debts, slate clean
as an uncooked bean.”
Laughing, she replies that Divinity
will be pleased with my use of poetics
whispering : “Know that your spine will
revert to 21 years when I draw your
breath into mine, to gently carry to
Divine. You will sway on your way
into a ringlet bay of rosy everlasting days.
17 more good cheer years, hear my Dear.”
I watch quick footsteps across the
garden path. A thoughtform follows
slender caped back : “My claim to fame
is to be what HE-SHE desires me to be
~ Co-Creator of my own destiny.”
Next time Death visits, I will word it this way.
__________________
*[new form: L&N : Letters and Numbers]
from: "Me to You", by Alastair Reid
"...write me about the weather.
Perhaps
a letter across water,
something like this, but better,
would almost take us strangely
closer to home.
Write, and I'll come."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Monterrey, Nuevo Leon
Dizzied by the whirl of crowds
On sidewalks, seen through windows --
Reflected in mirrored, columned walls --
I drink, I eat, I mull and fret, I yearn,
Little lulled by homely music
Softly playing beneath sonorous
Strains of Spanish
(Beautiful tongue, not yet my own,
But now not strange to me --
Not wholly foreign.)
I sneak sidelong glances, I peek, I stare.
I feign indifference:
A pseudo-cosmopolitan air.
I am quiet and excessively polite,
Not yet knowing how to be rude
In this still stiff idiom.
And, I am intensely lonely --
Hungry for a caressing, offhand phrase,
Only a stray familiar word, hardly heard,
Whispering all there is to say of home.
leave me
in my solitude
to enjoy the silence
let myself
float on
a peaceful river
I lend my petal’s ear
to the wave
and enjoy it’s lullaby
a moment
my longing begins to languish
the sidelong glances of beetles and butterflies
in my park’s hustle
I hope to pick up early dawn
greet the dew
and feel their coolness
glance at
sea breeze
impassioned in longing
bring me back
to my garden
where I belong to
and sit there
as a silent rose
~ (c) Sukmawati Komala ~
08 June 2013
Alt music serenades an aromatic algebra;
delicious, bitter, subtle notes served black.
We dance the math - I swipe, she smiles,
equations we don't know we've become.
She measures quanta
in these mathematical grounds, a coffee shop
where perfect rationality is axiomatic
and we've all come to get a good buzz on.
Imbibe the finest chemicals on Earth,
in history perhaps, for a minor modern pittance.
Everything is marginally consumed,
we cooperate despite ourselves
and yet we feel alone.
The sign reads 'Figure 8'
That perky sidelong infinite
of Escher, of Godel,
of all those lofty thoughts
borne of a simple brew
and so much mathy froth.
3/12/2016
I wonder. . . can you take me to a world
where ladies fair with ringlets in their hair,
with graceful shoulders bared and necks bepearled
wear gowns that billow as they dance on air?
Around the ballroom floor these girls are swirled
upon the arms of men most debonair!
Such coy sidelong looks to their gents they give,
for lust is held at bay - romance they live!
And in this bygone era, gentlemen
pursue their ladyloves with great aplomb.
Imagining a picnic in a glen. . .
I'm with a handsome bard who starts to strum
a tune to verses written by his pen.
To poetry this maiden will succumb!
So whisper euphony into my ear,
and lose us both in time, dear sonneteer.
Written by Andrea Dietrich
for nette onclaud's
MOMENT IN ANOTHER TIME Poetry Contest
Though I'll remember nature's wonders,
sunsets and the breath of spring,
feel the wind blow through my hair
and know the thrill of sunrise cresting.
We see the universe as dancing,
two such different creatures trancing,
we two will never understand
the private notions of the other,
even if we take each other's hand.
Coming close to your destruction
you will see the other side,
who says who has satisfied
requirements for a better life?
Friendship, if we could but find it,
yields the seeds of greater profit,
greater than the seeds of strife.
I now remain just as I ever was.
I shall take my morning walk,
communing with the birds and talking
to myself while reading Kafka,
glancing at the latest headlines.
Dear Stravinsky's 'Rite' is slighted,
(he'll return when ears are righted.)
When I smell a rose I'm prompted
to recall a certain lady, gifted with
a new perception, I must sadly
take exception, for the moment anyway.
The chill of morning, people yawning,
I am tired, the blush of dawning has me
feeling ill at ease, my spirit sags,
I barely reach the second floor.
'When will you return? Is Paris so much more
than you have here?' is my unanswered question.
I drag my heels to breakfast,
listless as a lazy dog, and nibble toast,
my countenance as pallid as a ghost.
A letter would be welcomed.
I shall miss you; there, I've said it.
I am your friend, are you not mine?
Tenuous and strained, two casual
acquaintances who share so little time,
we brush elbows, like strangers passing
on a platform, sharing sidelong glances,
afraid to say hello. I watch you as you go.
Others swore we would be close,
peas in a pod, familiar.
Instead there is no warmth, not yet.
Were you to try we might combine
and nibble toast together, and take
a walk, your hand in mine, and
stammer conversation 'til we knew
there was no reason e'er to rue.
I shall sit with pleasant thoughts of you.
Desperate, I ponder on your death,
scant breath expended twixt the two of us,
and loneliness an ache too harsh to mention,
pen in hand and no one to subscribe.
I'll scarce recall the softness of your skin,
or search your heart to find what lies within.
Should I be bold, or take a gentler path?
encourage you... would I incur your wrath?
If you were to die I'd never know your truth,
and I should lose the vigour of my youth.
here i am in the flesh
no victim levelled in scope
22 catches im cashing
not selling the dope
i watched the sunrise
used to pray sometimes
kids thatd played outside
tho fate did seem unkind
chased a better understanding
even struck with fear
i snuck the beer
tried to duck my peers
i followed a different meter
nothing a solid measure
chosen to conquer pressure
everything a destresser
heart holding me hostage
molted to honest
i bolted the hardest
when the weather was modest
a mouse a giant in microns
goodbye to those by gones
dont question my sigh wrong
my glance isn't sidelong
grapple like pyslocke
i baffle this time slot
id raffle what i got
if the apple had dry rot
a value subjection
the cowl of perfection
the now in dissection
with an owls direction
i mirrored reflections
considered my being
chose service of special
situations im seeing
putting words to the onset
throwing curves in a concept
praise a merge of the object
from curse to the prospect
The pay is good. The world's abrim
With men in need of dying.
Though being shunned confounds him
Some, he's past the point of trying.
Unwelcome in their church, he prays
Alone for his deliverance,
But can't recall the magic phrase
To jimmy open God's forgiveness.
He looks sidelong at all their locks,
the doors he may not enter.
And ponders hard the paradox
Of circles with no center.
The citizens avert their eyes
From him at obtuse angles.
Preserving thus in their surmise
Safe distance from the throats he strangles.
He feels no need to hide his face.
He does the work as bidden.
Yet yearns to feel the touch of grace,
Which seems perversely hidden.
The man sleeps heavy on his farm.
He's valiant in a world unkempt,
Where every breed of villain swarms.
The hangman dreams his hands are hemp.
Ugly Girl
How much accrued opinion
Of fashion magazines distinction
Did it take
How many diets
And days of self-conscious
How much make up
Did they use
To paint your warm smile
And your sweet bright eyes
How many narrow teases and sidelong glances
And peer pressure enhancements
To convince you
Ugly girl
How much money did you spend
On the must have pages
On the latest trend
Of their uniformity
Their mask that fits you so neatly
With their plastic acceptability
And how many round pegs
In square holes
To fit you into that dress
Ugly girl
How much more make up will it take
Before you see
You never needed it any way
How much more acceptance and approval
Will it take to convince you
That you are just an ugly girl
How many less kilograms
How many less pounds
How much blemish removal cream
Or centimeters of clean clear skin
To judge you to perfection
Ugly girl
I oft' cast a sidelong glance at this woman I love,
She's been at my side so long,sent from God above,
When I look out at the dawn, I kneel and pray,
Thanking God for her presence for just one more day.
She has been my anchor on the rough seas of life,
I am blessed beyond tears for my wonderful wife.
We go out for a drive in the countryside to see,
This beautiful land that has now come to be,
Our home here in Cyprus until we are set free.
From this earthly bondage in a world of sin,
In heaven with Jesus we both long to be.
Until that time, Our Lord keeps us here,
Happy most times though we shed the odd tear,
We have settled in this land, nice people we find,
As we journey through life,most are loving and kind.
Sometimes the old life beckons from a far off shore,
Where our children dwell, all of whom we adore.
Life is good when they come to our home on the hill,
But when they leave we find that it is a bitter pill.
Back on our own, in our home on the hill in Armou,
But we're never alone, for Lord, we have You.
© Dave Timperley 06 August 2016
We see the universe as dancing,
two such different creatures trancing,
we two will never understand
the private notions of the other,
even if we take each other's hand.
Coming close to your destruction
you will see the other side,
who says who has satisfied
requirements for a better life?
Friendship, if we could but find it,
yields the seeds of greater profit,
greater than the seeds of strife.
I now remain just as I ever was.
I shall take my morning walk,
communing with the birds and talking
to myself while reading Kafka,
glancing at the latest headlines.
Dear Stravinsky's 'Rite' is slighted,
(he'll return when ears are righted.)
When I smell a rose I'm prompted
to recall a certain lady, gifted with
a new perception, I must sadly
take exception, for the moment anyway.
The chill of morning, people yawning,
I am tired, the blush of dawning has me
feeling ill at ease, my spirit sags,
I barely reach the second floor.
'When will you return? Is Paris so much more
than you have here?' is my unanswered question.
I drag my heels to breakfast,
listless as a lazy dog, and nibble toast,
my countenance as pallid as a ghost.
A letter would be welcomed.
I shall miss you; there, I've said it.
I am your friend, are you not mine?
Tenuous and strained, two casual
acquaintances who share so little time,
we brush elbows, like strangers passing
on a platform, sharing sidelong glances,
afraid to say hello. I watch you as you go.
Others swore we would be close,
peas in a pod, familiar.
Instead there is no warmth, not yet.
Were you to try we might combine
and nibble toast together, and take
a walk, your hand in mine, and
stammer conversation 'til we knew
there was no reason e'er to rue.
I shall sit with pleasant thoughts of you.
Desperate, I ponder on your death,
scant breath expended twixt the two of us,
and loneliness an ache too harsh to mention,
pen in hand and no one to subscribe.
I'll scarce recall the softness of your skin,
or search your heart to find what lies within.
Should I be bold, or take a gentler path?
encourage you... would I incur your wrath?
If you were to die I'd never know your truth,
and I should lose the vigor of my youth.
The concrete and plastic, chrome domed
bricked up auditorIum rang
like a hollow bell,
a meager few red skins circle the stadium seats
like smoke from a mythical “peace” pipe
ragged, distilled, diluted, distraught, “dised”
A 21st century ablution of angst.
Round shoulders meet, sidelong glances;
old and young form for dances.
All semblance of nature betrayed
by polyester tassels and cheap Crayola yarn fringe,
a sneakers and moccasins mix,
only the whistle-drum, and sage smoke sanctifies.
Circles form, crouching over polyurethane floors
silver hair, braids and hands harden; they bear,
bore the “dis” missive, disdain,
the balm of music eased all the pain.
Round shoulders meet, sidelong glances;
old and young form for dances.
The roof “dis” appears becomes the night sky
air vibrates with the heart thumping of stick on skin,
and so WE, the PEOPLE begin.
Chants warm the taunt throats of man;
a whistle trills the coyotes howl.
Heartbeat sings a drum song,
bowed and bent the circle dancers form.
Stomp, twirl, braids a whirl, winged dancers rattle and bell.
Mans peacock form no longer forlorn rises above the well.
Chant the tell tale heart,
the sorrow the joy, drum thumpers hatchets fall
on the neck of a starry night.
Drum and dance invite…..
scream,….soul song, smoke dream,
eyes daze in a reverent scheme.